


Nothin' Like Summer in the City

by sablier_bloque



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, First Time, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve Rogers is a flirt, Steve Rogers's Birthday, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-07 19:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablier_bloque/pseuds/sablier_bloque
Summary: Bucky watched sweat bead from Steve’s hairline, down his neck, under the collar of his shirt. His thumb itched to chase it and wipe it away. Usually summertime killed just about any desire for anybody or anything. But Steve was inescapable, so far under his skin that Bucky would never get him out. Not even the suffocating heat of July could keep him from wanting him.On July 4, New York City is blanketed in sweltering, oppressive heat. Bucky wants to give Steve the best birthday he can, but Steve has his own ideas.Written for Cap's 101st birthday!





	Nothin' Like Summer in the City

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this fic comes from Arthur Miller's [Before Air Conditioning](https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1998/06/22/before-air-conditioning), about the brutality of New York summers.
> 
> Title comes from Lin-Manuel Miranda's _Hamilton._
> 
> This is unbeta'd.
> 
> Happy birthday, Steve!

It was hot.

It was _hot_. It was so hot that Bucky was losing his goddamn mind. There wasn’t a thing he or anyone else could do to escape the heavy, steamy, stickiness that blanketed the entire city, and there were only a handful of things to do to just barely alleviate it. By this point, Steve had practically forbidden him from entering the kitchen because he kept sticking his head in the icebox, and Steve cared more about keeping their food from spoiling than he did about Bucky’s comfort, the jerk. 

He could tell that Steve was just as miserable, getting cranky and short over the dumbest things. Hell, every person in the city was miserable. Entire families would cram their mattresses on their fire escapes and sleep in their skivvies for the whole world to see in hopes of a modicum of breeze. Who cared about propriety and decency when Brooklyn itself was on fire? 

He and Steve were on their fire escape right now, mattresses squished together, top to bottom. They would always sprawl out with their heads meeting in the middle so they could talk and shoot the shit until they finally fell asleep. Now the sun was rising over the building across the street, and Bucky squinted as he opened his eyes, a little confused as to why he’d slept so long. Right, no alarm this morning. He and Steve were both off of work.

It was Independence Day.

He grinned and sat up and ruffled Steve’s sweaty hair. 

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

Steve groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, his knobby spine shifting as he did so, his boxers tugging down at his hip. “No.”

“Come on. It’s your birthday.”

Steve’s eyes remained closed and he frowned. “Then let me sleep, asshole.” 

“I mean you _could_ sleep, oooooooooor we could go to the Met?”

Steve finally cracked open one eye. “The Met?” 

“Yeah, punk. Now get up.” 

*

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was pay-as-you-wish for New Yorkers, but Steve always insisted on paying something. And a trip to Manhattan meant the fare to get there and back, overpriced food, and other things they didn’t have money for. But the Met was Steve Rogers’ favorite place on earth, and Bucky wanted to treat him for his big day. 

Steve went to the kitchen to pack up sandwiches, but Bucky shook his head, promising hot dogs and shaved ice from the street carts.

“I can’t afford that, Buck.”

“It’s your birthday gift. I saved up extra. It’s fine.”

Steve smiled, bright, excited, and Bucky’s heart flip-flopped in a very dumb and annoying way. 

They made their way to Manhattan, the subway a sweltering, soupy mishmash of bodies and smells. When they finally climbed up to the street level, he hoped for some small reprieve from the heat, but it only felt like it was one-point-five degrees cooler than the underground.

“I swear to the almighty, I’ll never complain about winter again,” Bucky said, walking up the steps to the museum.

“I’ll remind you of that come January, pal,” Steve replied with a smirk and then sauntered up ahead.

Bucky watched sweat bead from Steve’s hairline, down his neck, under the collar of his shirt, and his thumb itched to chase it and wipe it away. Usually summertime killed just about any desire for anybody or anything. He’d told his regular dames that he’d see them again come September because it was too hot for drinkin’ or dancin’ or fuckin’. But Steve was inescapable, so far under his skin that Bucky would never get him out. Not even the suffocating heat of July could keep him from wanting him.

The Met was cooler than outside, _praised be_. It wasn’t quite comfortable, but its thick stone walls seemed to keep the worst of the summer at bay. Steve picked up a map and sat in the foyer with a pencil, circling new exhibits he hadn’t seen yet. Bucky liked art as much as the next guy, but seeing Steve light up like a kid at Christmas ( _god_ , he missed Christmas. And cold. And snow) was the thing that really made the trip enjoyable. 

He trailed after Steve through the Egyptian gallery and the American art and the sculptures. Steve gasped at the sight of a Claude Michel, whispering, “oh, this is new” before he took out his sketchbook and drew a rough sketch of the satyr and nymph in, what the plaque referred to as, Bacchic bliss. 

They walked through new exhibits until their stomachs grumbled, and then they bought hot dogs right outside the museum, piled high with toppings, which dripped down their fingers and splattered to the ground. 

“What now?” Steve asked, his cheek stuffed, rounded against his last bite of food.

Bucky smacked the back of his head. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” 

“Alright, ma,” Steve replied, and the fact that saying the word _ma_ didn’t make him frown meant that today was indeed good.

*

They walked the short distance to Central Park and ordered shaved ice, Bucky’s eyes glazing over as the vendor covered it in slick blueberry syrup. Steve ordered cherry, and then they sat under the shade of a large magnolia tree, facing one another. Bucky was already sweating again, his shirt clinging to his back, damp and uncomfortable.

“You doin’ alright, Stevie?” he asked, starting shit.

He grinned, taking a bite of the ice. “Yeah, why?”

“Just makin’ sure. You were tearing up over Van Gogh in there.”

Steve shoved him. “Fuck off.”

Bucky laughed. “Never thought I’d see a grown man cry over art.” 

“It’s not my fault that you’re an uncultured rat.” Cherry-red syrup started to drip from Steve’s ice, traveling down his thin, delicate wrist toward his rolled-up shirtsleeve. “Ah, jeez,” Steve whispered and then brought his arm to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the syrup in one straight line all the way to his wrist. His mouth made a suction noise when he pulled off, and his lips were stained bright red, like a dame’s lipstick. 

Bucky sucked in a breath, unable to tear his eyes away from Steve’s mouth. Of course he did it so loudly, like a fucking idiot, that Steve heard him and looked up. God knew what Bucky’s face looked like then, probably wide-eyed and wanton like a girl in a nudie mag. Steve’s eyebrows shot up with recognition, and _oh, fuck_ , Bucky was done for. He was about to avert his eyes to preserve some ounce of self-respect, but then Steve tipped the cup of ice again, deliberately this time. He looked directly at Bucky as more syrup poured down his wrist, and then he closed his eyes and brought his arm back up to his mouth, slowly trailing the line once again with his tongue.

“Steve,” Bucky choked out when Steve sucked at his wrist bone because they were in the middle of Central Park, and Steve was—was… well he wasn’t doing anything wrong, really, but it was so blatantly sexual that it was making his dick chub up in his pants.

“Yes?” Steve asked, his eyes wide and innocent, his lips upturned. 

_What the hell_? Bucky had wanted this little punk since he could figure out what his dick was for, and Steve had never, _never_ showed any indication that he was queer or wanted him too, and he’d certainly never licked cherry syrup sensually from his own skin like some goddamn good-time gal. Guy. Whatever.

So he was equal parts turned on and confused right about now. “Steve?” he whispered, a question this time. Steve stood up and sat right next to Bucky against the tree trunk, close enough for their bodies to touch, and then he pushed his thigh against Bucky’s. He didn’t say anything, he just went back to eating his shaved ice, while Bucky’s melted to sugar water because he couldn’t stop staring at their legs pressed so closely together.

Again. _What the hell_?

*

Bucky spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze of _jeez, it’s so hot, I want to remove my skin from my body_ and _jeez, is my best pal playing me or is he maybe sweet on me too_? They rode the Fifth Avenue El for a couple of hours without a destination, just enjoying the open windows on a fast-moving train. Bucky had a dime novel and Steve had his sketchbook, and they took turns sitting next to the window for prime breeze real estate. 

And Steve, well, who knew that Steve Rogers was such a little vixen? Because he was suddenly touching Bucky every chance he got, shoulders brushing, legs pressed together, a brief hand on his wrist, fingers grasping at his thigh if the train stopped too quickly. Bucky was out of his mind by the time they finally hightailed it back to Brooklyn, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss Steve or kill him.

They got home with a few hours of daylight in the sky, bodies drenched in sweat, to find the fire hydrant on their block had been wrenched opened by some blessed soul. Water blasted from the opening, and their neighbors, young and old alike, were running in and out of its stream. It was almost too good to be true.

“Oh my god,” Steve exclaimed, and then both of them were sprinting to join in because _finally_ , a relief from the hell of summer. Steve reached it first, his chest heaving, but it was pretty crowded, and he wasn’t about to knock over a gaggle of kids to cool off.

“Hey, kids,” Bucky shouted over the sound of the water and children’s squeals. “It’s Steve’s birthday today! Let him have a go, eh?” 

Then Mrs. Rosenbaum was kissing Steve’s cheek to wish him a happy one and shooing the children away so Steve could have a turn. Steve grinned at him with a, “thanks, Bucky,” and he stepped into the water with his arms open, not even flinching against the jet, his eyes closed and his face pointing upward, like a saint ascending the heavens. His smile was dazzling, hooking into Bucky’s chest and reeling him in like a fish on the line. Steve reached out when he got close enough and said, “your turn,” taking his hand and yanking him into the water. 

It was a powerful stream, it felt harsh and abrasive against his belly, and it wasn’t as cold as he’d hoped (he’d hoped for water piped directly from the Arctic, actually), but dear god, it was the best thing he’d ever felt, and he’d once gotten a suckjob from _the_ Ginny Parkson. He’d gloated to Steve about that for weeks.

And then his mind stopped. Was that why Steve had never expressed any interest in Bucky? Because Bucky liked dames? He looked at Steve who was cupping his hands in the water to run through his hair, and he grabbed Steve’s arm and pulled them both away from the stream. Steve was laughing and grinning, absolutely drenched, but he looked at Bucky with confusion when he steered them toward the tenement. 

“You don’t want to hang around, Buck?”

“No, I—I think it’s best if we go home.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “Alright.” 

Bucky’s shoes squelched uncomfortably around the block and up the steps to their place, but at least his body temperature felt normal for the first time in a week. When they got inside, Bucky stepped out of his shoes and pulled off his drenched socks before glancing up at Steve who was doing the same.

“Bucky—”

“What was that in the park? And on the El?”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Well, you looked like, I mean, I thought.” He sighed and then planted his bare feet firmly, jutting his chin in that way he did when he was taking on a bully twice his size. “You looked like you wanted me.” 

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I did.” He looked down. 

Steve smirked and stepped forward. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

“Steve, you’ve never acted like…” He huffed. “I didn’t know you were queer.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know _you_ were.” He paused for a moment. “You’ve dated a lot of broads, Buck.”

“I do like dames, pal. That’s not a front or anything.” But then something he’d never considered suddenly popped into Bucky’s head. “H-have you been with a fella before?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

He took a step back, his gut churning in discomfort. “How? When?”

He shrugged. “I walk through DUMBO on my way home from work, don’t I?”

“ _Steve_.”

“What? You’ve got two regular dames and who knows how many else you see on the side?”

Well, damn, the little shit had a point. But Bucky was still reeling from the fact that Steve wasn’t a virgin and that he’d been with a guy or maybe several guys, but Bucky was too chicken to ask the exact number. He might not want to know, come to think.

They were still in their sopping wet clothes, and the warm, oppressive air of the tenement was starting to make him steam. “So what happens now?” Bucky asked. 

“Well, it’s my birthday.” Steve said with a smirk.

“No shit, dumbass.”

“So I can think of a great way to celebrate it.”

“Well, golly gee, isn’t that what we’ve been doing all day?”

*

They took a cold bath. Together. That hadn’t been the plan, but there they were, in their living room bathtub, shivery and sudsy and trailing soft hands along each other’s arms and knees. The wireless was on, playing some revolutionary war reenactment, but they weren’t paying attention to it in the slightest. Then Steve grinned coyly and straddled his lap, sloshing water as he moved across the tub. His small body fit so perfectly against Bucky’s, and with Steve this close, he could see his eyelashes, prettier and thicker than a dame’s, and the freckles on his nose peeking out after their time in the sun. 

“I want to kiss you,” Steve said, and Bucky felt his mouth go dry. He licked his lips. He nodded. Then Steve moved forward slowly, hesitantly, like he was afraid Bucky might spook, and lord knows he might’ve been right. But then he finally pressed their lips together, and _oh god_ , he wasn’t spooked at all; this was what he’d wanted his whole damn life. So he opened his mouth under Steve’s, felt his tongue brush against his own, felt a fire lick up his veins that had nothing to do with the current state of the weather. Steve’s mouth was so hot, so incredible and slick against his own, and it was nothing like kissing a dame. Rougher, pushier, _good_.

He moaned, surging forward, water sloshing, and he pressed Steve tighter against him, chest-to-chest, his arms wrapped around his skinny frame. Steve ground their hips together, and he felt Steve’s erection pressing against his own in the warming water. “ _Stevie_ ,” he rasped out, tilting his head back.

Steve cupped his hand against Bucky’s mouth, silencing him. “If you can’t keep your mouth shut, don’t say my name. Half the neighborhood will hear you through the open windows.” Bucky nodded, and Steve pulled away to reach over and turn up the wireless, half his body hanging out of the tub in his attempt to reach. Bucky wrapped his arm around his waist to steady him.

“Don’t fall out, idiot,” Bucky said, laughing, but then he realized Steve’s ass was _right there_ , small and round and tempting. It wasn’t like he’d never seen it, but he’d never been so close to it, and he’d never been able to touch it. So he did. He grabbed at his flesh, squeezing it, and he felt Steve shudder before he righted himself in the tub again. 

“Yeah,” Steve whispered, bucking against him, bringing Bucky’s hand to his other asscheek. “More.” Bucky gripped him harder, and pressed their hips together as he thrust forward, creating much-needed friction against his dick. Except, they were getting a little too enthusiastic because water started to escape over the sides of the tub.

“We’re gonna make a goddamn mess,” Bucky said, breathless, kind of not caring.

“Here,” Steve said, stilling them, leaning back a little. He took both of their cocks in his hand, long fingers wrapping around the shafts and then he gave a couple of tugs.

“Oh, fuck. Honey,” Bucky cried out. Steve’s hand felt so good against his dick, better than he ever could’ve imagined. And they looked even prettier together, Steve’s cock pink and pale against Bucky’s, ruddy and red. 

“Yeah, that’s good, isn’t it?” Steve asked with a sly grin before his eyes fluttered shut. He grabbed one of Bucky’s hands and entwined it with the one on their cocks so that they were both jerking each off. And holy god, Bucky’s brains were about to leak out of his ears like melted ice cream. 

One hand was still squeezing Steve’s pert little ass, and he thought, _well, this is what queer fellas do, don’t they?_ , before he moved his middle finger down the cleft of Steve’s ass. Steve gasped and when Bucky found the pucker of his hole, he circled it and pressed against it gently. 

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve whispered.

“Is this good?” Bucky asked, suddenly feeling a little unsure. Dicks he could handle, but asses were a whole new territory for him.

“Yeah, yeah. Just rub. Don’t press. Need slick for that.”

“Alright,” he whispered, in awe of Steve’s face all flushed and pretty, of the feeling of their cocks pressed together between their palms. 

It felt inevitable, really—SteveandBucky, BuckyandSteve, inseparable since grade school, eating, sleeping, drinking, living, doing everything _together_ , so of course they would eventually add _fucking_ to that list too.

“God, baby,” Bucky moaned, trying to be quiet. He was, honest. Except, “you get me so hot. Fuck. Always have. Always.” He was edging closer, pleasure building and bubbling within him.

Steve whined breathily, and he leaned in close to his ear. “Me too. I—I’ve been listening to you fuck girls for years, Buck.” 

And _Jesus Christ_ , Bucky shot off right then, blinded by the intensity of Steve touching him and whispering naughty shit like that in his ear. Steve Rogers was a goddamn siren, and Bucky was hopelessly shipwrecked on his shore. 

He looked down afterward, still trembling, and saw his spunk trailing and fading out into the water as Steve’s hand pulled away from his dick. “Mmm,” Steve said, like he just took a bite of a hot fudge sundae, and what would the neighborhood say if they found out just how dirty this little punk was?

His brain cleared up, and he realized that he’d stopped touching Steve when he’d come. So he dutifully went back at the task at hand, rubbing his tight little hole and jerking his cock.

“Bucky,” he whispered before moaning. “I wanna fuck you.”

“ _Jesus_.”

“Not now. Too hot. But I wanna.” 

Bucky nodded, out of his mind. “Anything you want, honey.”

“Will you,” he grabbed Bucky’s hand and tightened the grip on his dick. “A little harder.” He gasped. “Yeah, yeah. Perfect.” 

“God, look at you. You’re gorgeous.” He twisted his wrist on the upward stroke and Steve groaned like he was close. “That’s it, sweetheart. Come on. Come for me.”

His body seized up, his back arching, and then he was coming all over Bucky’s fist and into the water, his eyes squeezing shut like he just couldn’t handle how good it felt. He whimpered when he finished, and fell bonelessly on top of Bucky. 

Bucky hadn’t even realized that he was already getting hot again, the bath not doing them a lick of good anymore in the battle against heat. And now there was 100 pounds of warm skin clinging to him.

“You’re hot, Stevie,” he whined, pushing him away.

“Yeah, I am,” Steve replied with a wink. 

“Wow, and humble too.”

He laughed and sat back to remove the plug from the drain. “You just told me two minutes ago that I was gorgeous. Unless that was just your dick talkin’.”

“Jesus. Be glad it’s your birthday, punk.”

Steve’s smile turned dopey and soft and he leaned in for a kiss.

“I am.”

*

They headed to the roof to wait for fireworks with the rest of the tenants, sharing a beer with Jack Mitchell from two floors up, cold and sweaty from the icebox. Steve pressed the bottle against his neck, and water rolled down his skin, just barely visible under the light of the bright moon. 

Bucky realized he could touch now, if he was careful, if it wasn’t too intimate. So he palmed the back of Steve’s neck, and secretly trailed his thumb along the fat droplet of water. He felt Steve shudder under his hand.

Bucky heard the first explosion before he saw it, red, white, and blue lighting up the sky over the East River. Their neighbors _oo_ ’d and _aw_ ’d and rushed to the building edge to get a better look. But the two of them stayed back, his hand resting on Steve’s neck, Steve’s arm wrapped around his back. 

He turned away from the spectacle and looked at Steve, his face lit up all prettily by the sight before them. Steve saw him staring and glanced up at Bucky. 

“What?” Steve asked, grinning, happy as a lark.

“Just admiring the view,” Bucky said. 

“Hush,” Steve said, removing the arm at his back to elbow him in the ribs. 

Then Bucky smiled and leaned down to bring his lips to Steve’s ear. “Happy birthday, honey.” 

And really, Steve’s resulting smile was prettier than any lights in the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I’m new to fandom and looking for new Stucky friends to squee with! You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sablier_bloque) (most active) or [Tumblr](https://sablier-bloque.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Any references to the Met are based on current state of the museum, as I had a hard time finding out about what the Met was like during the 1930s. The sculpture is The Intoxication of Wine by Claude Michel.
> 
> If you liked this, maybe you wouldn't mind a [retweet](https://twitter.com/sablier_bloque/status/1146826977493622786) or [reblog](https://sablier-bloque.tumblr.com/post/186051665454/nothin-like-summer-in-the-city-steve-x-bucky)? Much thanks! :)


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